


selling your soul to a cold gun

by queerleader (autolatry)



Series: Crime AU [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Bank Robber Derek Hale, Bonus Chapter, First Kiss, Hostage Situations, Hostage Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Scira Wedding, Stiles Has No Morals, There's A Tag For That, Threats of Violence, Weddings, eating the lobster should be a new euphemism, everyone is a little fucked up, horrifying revelations, like literally none
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-26 03:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7558069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autolatry/pseuds/queerleader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Look, okay, he knows what you're going to say: <i>Stiles, what the fuck! Stop having sexy feelings toward the gun wielding werewolf who may or may not be planning on killing you</i>. He understands your concern - he really does - but there's something you're not quite getting here. <i>Stiles hasn't had sex in eight months!</i> And unless you have found yourself in the same predicament, you have no room to comment.</p><p>OR</p><p>The one where the guy holding Stiles hostage is hot.<br/>+ Bonus chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lydia's skirt whips around her legs as her heels clip-clack down the sidewalk. The cold autumn air curls around her legs and raises goosebumps above her ankles and Stiles frowns. The whole _no longer being hopelessly in love with her_ thing is concerning. He's spent a considerable portion of his adolescent life fawning after the red-headed knockout and now that those feelings are gone he's found himself trapped in some sort of sexual limbo.

Maybe his dick is broken. 

The clip-clacking stops abruptly and Stiles collides with Lydia face first. He stumbles for a moment before catching himself and steadying the girl in the process. He knows she's glaring daggers without needing to look. 

"Stiles," Lydia hisses, beginning to almost aggressively smooth down his jacket. "We're going to miss our train if you don't  _hurry up_." 

They're supposed to be going home today, back to Beacon Hills. A friend of theirs is getting married at the horrifying age of twenty. Not that Scott think's it's horrifying at all. He's all infatuated with his high school girlfriend and they're desperately in love. Stiles isn't quite sure if it's gross or adorable. Perhaps he'll know after the wedding. 

Despite Stiles' cynical views on settling down when you've barely finished breastfeeding, he's ecstatic for his best friend. Scott and Kira are both essentially puppies and make a good match. Stiles just personally wouldn't touch _until death do us part_ with a ten-foot pole. He wants excitement and adventure and thrill and Stiles can't see the missionary position ever bringing him those things.

That's what married people do, right? The missionary position? 

"Earth to Stiles." Lydia waves her hand in front of his face, her perfectly manicured nails shimmering in the crisp midday light. 

Stiles blinks himself back to the present and gives her a timid smile. "Sorry, Lyds," He chuckles sheepishly.

Another reason he might be a little pessimistic about the whole wedding thing is the fact that he's the best man and he's showing up alone. Again. Now that he thinks about it, he can't remember the last time he didn't rock up dateless at a get together with his friends. It isn't like he doesn't get offers - he does, plenty - but he needs someone stimulating, and Darren From the Coffee Shop just doesn't cut it. Even if Darren From the Coffee Shop has one of those V lines and hair just long enough to tug, blowjob lips and a chest so hairy it could put a caveman to shame. Oh, Darren From the Coffee Shop.

"Stiles!"

"Sorry!"

Lydia pouts her plush, full lips and hoists her handbag further up her shoulder. "Look, I'll take your case and meet you at the platform. Don't be late, I  _will_ leave without you."

An elderly woman barges into Stiles' shoulder as she charges her way into the bank that the two have paused outside of, nearly sending Stiles flying again. He blinks a few times at Lydia's remark, not understanding. "Why aren't I coming with you?"

Oh, he knows that look. That's the  _Stiles, for a smart boy you're damn well dense sometimes_ look. "Because you need to get the money out of the bank to pay the caterer." The  _duh_ goes unspoken. 

"Right," Stiles nods and spins around on his heels to get his bearings before looking up at the bank. "Bank. Yeah. Bank. I'll just... go banking, then."

Lydia shakes her head exasperatedly and turns away, heels clip-clacking once more.

 

Despite the roasting climate, the powerful air conditioning inside the bank manages to be way too cold and Stiles shivers from his position in the queue. He's almost at the front, stuck one place behind that powerwalking granny on a mission from earlier. She tilts her chin up when she speaks and looks pointedly down at the teller behind the glass booth. She's snarky and cold and is staring at the teller like he's something unpleasant she stepped in on the sidewalk. Stiles hates that particular breed of old person. The sort that thinks that just because they aren't dead yet that they can treat everyone else like crap. Though, if Stiles makes it to that age, you best believe he'll be the most condescending, passive aggressive raisin you'll ever have the displeasure of meeting. 

A family of four stands behind Stiles, clicking their tongues impatiently and glaring at nothing in particular. The parents look like the type to send the father to live in the pool house after he cheats with the nanny instead of getting a divorce because they don't want Sandra, who's husband plays golf on Wednesdays, to gossip about them at book club next week. Clearly, the son is a trust fund baby who was told no once when he was a kid and screamed so loud that he's gotten his own way ever since and the daughter is most likely planning to run away with her boyfriend, Blake, who plays guitar in a death metal band. She's probably got one of those secret tattoos somewhere only Blake can locate, too. 

Stiles is great at people watching. 

He's just about to start dissecting why the man in the aisle beside him has regular sexual fantasies about his own mother when his thoughts are cut short by a piercing scream.

 

It is a common misconception that Stiles Stilinski is a brave man. He's not brave; he's stupid and brash, dangerously impulsive, kinda fucked in the head and has a tendency to  _just keep talking_. He can't stop himself. Oh, God, why can't he stop himself? It's a sickness and a curse. 

Talking is like his panic response; whenever he fucks up he immediately starts to blab, hoping the constant drone of his voice will smooth the shit storm over. (And yes, he is aware this tactic almost always makes the situation ten times worse.) 

Yet, still, he never learns.

 

"Look, kid, I don't want to hurt you." Stiles thinks the term 'kid' is being misused here since the guy - Boyd (if his eavesdropping is to be relied upon) - looks roughly the same age as him. They could have gone to school together for all Stiles knows. 

Stiles is sat on the cold tiles of the bank floor. His knees hurt from kneeling on the hard surface and he's not sure of the time but he's willing to bet that Lydia is long gone by now. She's probably sat in first class, bitching about him to some suave businessman who can pay off Stiles' student loans with a snap of his fingers. Damn Lydia. Where is his knight in shining stilettoes when he needs her? 

"Then don't hurt me?" 

This is probably one of those times where he's supposed to keep his mouth shut, isn't it?

Boyd sighs a heavy, put-upon sigh and rubs his handgun against the rough material of his pants. The man looks tired, older than his years and Stiles suspects that he doesn't particularly want to be here in the first place. It's hard to feel sorry for him, though; he is holding a bank full of innocent people hostage, after all. 

There are three other members of the wannabe Wild Bunch and they're all armed just the same as Boyd. There's a blonde girl who has a hot, bad bitch, serial killer aesthetic going on that Stiles can really get behind; a guy with a strong jaw who Lydia would probably, definitely bang and another guy at the front desk, pointing his handgun at the teller and talking way too quietly for Stiles to hear. Front desk guy must be the Butch Cassidy of this little performance. 

"What's taking them so long? My knees hurt and I have a wedding to get to. And isn't there supposed to be an action sequence or something? Not to be  _that guy_ , I know you're just trying to do your job, but this is going at a way slower pace than I thought it would. Two out of five stars at the most. Would not be held hostage again," Stiles rambles. The rest of the hostages are being too silent and it's making his skin itch. He can't stand waiting at the best of times and waiting when there are loaded weapons involved just makes the whole thing a hundred times worse. He needs a distraction, even if that distraction is a man who could potentially kill him.

Boyd clenches and unclenches his jaw, cracking his neck to the side. " _Stop talking to me,_ " He grits out, turning to glare at Stiles with glowing gold eyes. 

_Oh shit._

Being held hostage is bad.

Being held hostage by a pack of werewolves is bad with a big pile of shit on top. 

Not that Stiles is speciesist or anything; his best friend is a werewolf. 

Stiles gulps and is just about to word vomit something that will probably get himself killed when he hears footsteps approaching. "Made a new friend, Boyd?" The blond man that Lydia would eat alive asks. His voice is dripping with sleek arrogance and his lip quirks up at the side in a half-sneer. He's good looking - Stiles can admit that - but boy oh boy does he have the asshole swagger down. He exudes a sort of self-assured cockiness that men tend to grow out of after they've been punched in the face for the first time. Stiles thinks someone should help the guy out with that.

"Leave it, Jackson," Boyd grumbles, his bright eyes returning to their normal brown colour. 

Jackson's eyes, on the other hand, are a startling, icy blue. And yeah, Stiles should probably be wary of this one. 

Despite Boyd's previous outburst, his yellow eyes give away that he's never killed an innocent. That gives Stiles a little hope that the beta will hesitate before teaching him a lesson. But Jackson? He's another story altogether. Jackson's smile twists and he lowers himself to bob in a squatting position. He stares Stiles down, searching his features for something to pick at. A sense of fear, perhaps even a flicker of defiance. The man is looking for a fight, that much is clear. 

Apparently finding nothing, Jackson lets out an irritated growl and takes Stiles' cheeks with one hand, tilting Stiles' head so he's looking him menacingly in the eye. "Listen, brat, or this won't end well for you. _Know your damn place_. Do you see anyone else here mouthing off?" The bank has gone chillingly quiet. Stiles is unable to get a good look at what is going on around him, but he's pretty sure all eyes are on him now. He tries to suppress his gulp but it's too late. "No. Because they're not stupid. Keep your head down and that damn mouth shut or I'll blow it off."

The man lets go and stands back up; he smirks down at his handiwork, pleased with the way that dark smudges are already starting to colour Stiles' cheeks in round, finger-shaped bruises. Everything about Jackson's deminer screams 'I was a prick in high school and I'm clinging to that attitude for as long as I can'. He's just like the kids that used to bully Stiles back in Beacon Hills and fuck does it piss him off. 

"Y'know," Stiles begins, moving to sit on his ass so his knees can have a well-needed rest. Dear lord did they hurt. And not in that rewarding 'it was totally worth it' kind of way. From this position, Stiles can see that they've drawn the attention of the blonde gunwoman who is stood near the main door. She looks curious as to what's taking place and also a little bit excited at the prospect of some action. Because a bank heist obviously isn't action enough without a side order of civilian bloodshed. "I almost feel sorry for you. I can't imagine what it's like to peak in high school and have to resort to playing the sidekick in a dull, second-rate production of _Public Enemies._ And that movie only got a sixty-eight percent rating on Rotton Tomatoes." There's a beat of tense silence before Stiles speaks again. "And what sort of name is  _Jackson_? It's like you've been set up to under achieve since birth. Did your parents hate you or something?"

Stiles doesn't get the chance to say anything else because suddenly there is a very clawed hand wrapped around his throat, slowly squeezing until his oxygen supply is cut off. Everything gets painfully hot extremely quickly and Stiles' face turns scarlet while his eyes become red-rimmed and on the verge of leaking scolding trails of tears down his burning cheeks. He tries to gasp for breath but Stiles' pitiful human strength is no match for a werewolf. 

He's just about to black out when the hand removes itself and Stiles sags to the floor. The tiles are mercifully cold and ease his flush as he lies on his front, heaving in air. He feels awful; sick and dizzy and like he wants to cry. He doesn't though. Instead, he lies there and thanks every higher being he can think of that he's still alive. He's just about to write a mental I.O.U to the easter bunny when his attention is finally drawn to the cause of Jackson's mercy. 

The man who was previously threatening the bank teller is now stood in front of the other hostages, inspecting his gun in a way similar to how Lydia checks her nails for chips. Stiles wonders momentarily why they're using guns at all. Though, he supposes a bullet is a lot less messy than a set of claws. He suddenly feels very cold. 

A pair of new electric blue eyes flick over to him but are gone again in a second. 

Upon closer inspection, it appears the wolf is less Butch Cassidy and more Johnny Strabler, minus the hat, of course. That being said, Stiles thinks that guy would look damn fine in a hat. He'd also look damn fine in nothing at all. And Jesus fucking Christ, this really isn't the time.

Hatless Johnny Strabler twirls his gun around his index finger and looks towards the other wolves. His expression is falsely calm; an obvious streak of irritants lies in wait underneath. "It doesn't look like our friend is too eager to help us out. Maybe they need a little added incentive." The wolves yip their approval while their leader circles the hostages. Stiles holds his breath when the blue-eyed wolf finally comes to a stop right in front of him. The man raises a brow then looks to Jackson with mild curiosity. "What's going on here?"

Jackson straightens up at the question, holding his shoulders back with a somewhat proud smirk. "I was just showing this brat what happens when he runs his mouth in front of a wolf."

 _What an asshole,_ Stiles thinks. Sure, there is still somewhat of a human-were divide within society, but it's rarely brought up in civilised conversation. Though, to be fair, this is hardly a civilised situation. He's being held hostage at gunpoint. Niceties were thrown out of the window some time ago. Still, Jackson is an asshole. 

It's hard to tell quite what's going on behind Derek's now blank features and, frankly, Stiles can't really find it in him to care; he's too busy focusing on the sickening feeling in his stomach. He thinks he knows where this is going and he doesn't like it one bit. Once again he finds himself cursing his big mouth because  _oh God,_ he's going to die.

There are suddenly two supernaturally strong hands hauling him up by the shoulders until he's stood before the blue-eyed wolf. The man has a strong jaw that's dusted with stubble and two dark, menacing looking eyebrows that sit above the most dazzling sea green eyes that Stiles has ever seen. It occurs to him that he probably shouldn't be mesmerised by the beauty of the eyes of a man who is about to take his life. The wolf gives him a long, surveying look before quirking his pink lips in a minute smile. "I guess we have a volunteer."

 

The room that Stiles has been unceremoniously dragged too - kicking and screaming, he might add - has no air conditioning and, as a result, the young man is almost drowning in his own sweat. Yes, that is definitely the reason for his sudden onslaught of extreme perspiration. No fear sweats here. Okay, maybe there's a little fear sweat, but the room is painfully small and cramped, has no windows and he's trapped inches away from a werewolf who has definitely killed an innocent at one point or another. If you were in this situation, you'd be fear sweating too. 

Stiles is about ninety percent sure this room is a broom closet. Who kills a hostage in a broom closet? 

Do broom closets even exist outside of historical literature? 

Well, he's already found out the answer to one of those questions today. He really doesn't want to find out the other. 

The werewolf huffs from his position opposite Stiles. He's stood, leaning against the doorframe, looking down on Stiles with something a little more sour than pity. "You stink like fear," He states. Stiles almost thinks he sounds displeased. 

"Yeah, well," Stiles' throat is still aching from Jackson's suffocating grip and his voice comes out husky and broken. He gives a clearing cough to try and right it. "Knowing you're about to die will do that to you."

Huffing again, this time with an added roll of his eyes, he pockets his gun and folds his arms across his chest. "Don't be so dramatic," The wolf sounds like he could be talking to an annoying kid brother, and that disturbs Stiles more than you might think. "Who said I was going to kill you?"

The question is rhetorical, but like that's ever going to stop Stiles. "Well, no offence, but your guy out there was doing a pretty good impression of the Boston strangler and you just told a room full of hostages that you need to give the bank some incentive," He gestures around himself, indicating the small space, "And here we are."

The wolf snorts but keeps curious eyes on Stiles for a long moment, like he's figuring him out. For a second he thinks he catches him sniffing the air. Stiles doesn't like it. "I didn't tell Jackson to do that," He finally breaks his gaze to roll his eyes and Stiles becomes abruptly aware that he had stopped breathing. "And I just need them to hurry up. Apparently, most of the banking here is done online and they need their clients to transfer the money into my account."

Stiles' brow shoots up and his lips are moving before he has a hope in hell of stopping them. "Did you prepare for this, like, at all? Dude, this is some really shoddy work. Research is your friend, especially when taking part in illegal activities." A thought pops into Stiles' head, mind running away with itself. "Have you done this before?"

Normally, this would be the part where Stiles would start to inwardly curse his tactlessness, but his thought process has all but been obliterated by the way that the wolf bites at his pink lip. He chews it for a second, looking torn, before answering Stiles' question. "No," His voice is growly, but Stiles doesn't feel threatened. And isn't that weird as fuck? "This would be my first time."

A bubble of hysteria works its way up Stiles' throat at the realisation that he isn't scared right now. He should be. He should be terrified and begging for his life. It's not even bravery or his usual brand of fear driven arrogance. Being locked in this broom closet with his possible killer is making him feel a lot more comfortable than he felt out in the open with the other hostages and that asshole Jackson. There is a strange calmness taking over him; a peculiar sensation of safety which confirms what a lot of people have speculated about Stiles for a long time: he is fucking insane. 

"You're a heist virgin?" Stiles gasps, intrigued, before shooting his captor a wide, excitable grin. "I'm a hostage virgin!"

The wolf's brow furrows and it feels like his eyes are burning into Stiles, leaking into his veins and coursing through his very being.

He has very pretty eyes. 

And look, okay, he knows what you're going to say:  _Stiles, what the fuck! Stop having sexy feelings toward the gun wielding werewolf who may or may not be planning on killing you._

He understands your concern - he really does - but there's something you're not quite getting here.

 _Stiles hasn't had sex in eight months!_ And unless you have found yourself in the same predicament, you have no room to comment. Nope. None. Nada. 

So with that in mind, please do not judge him when he holds out his hand - upward because he's still crumpled on the floor - and says in his most alluring voice. "I'm Stiles."

The wolf looks down at Stiles for a long moment, like he too is totally judging the young man's actions. He sniffs the air one last time - and yeah, still totally weird - and lowers himself onto the ground opposite, shaking Stiles' hand. "Derek."

 

Derek, as it turns out, had put as much thought into this bank robbery as Stiles had to decide that flirting with his captor was a good idea. He and the three fellow betas in his pack had been spending the weekend in the city when they'd become bored and set out in search of a little excitement. Apparently, they're the sort of people that see terrorising defenceless city goers as an acceptable form of entertainment and, honestly, Stiles doesn't really have any particularly strong feelings about that. Logically he knows he should be appalled but... eh. There are worse people in the world. 

Also, weirdly, they're both from Beacon Hills originally and Derek's mother - who just so happens to be a major fucking criminal, like a real life mob boss - is friendly with Stiles' dad. Small world. 

"It's not that I don't love Scott and Kira, because I do, so much," Stiles stresses - because it's fucking true. His blue jacket has been discarded and he's now laying splayed out on the wooden floor with his head in Derek's lap. The heat is actually killing him, he's tired and he's been talking non-stop for a good hour; Derek doesn't seem to mind. Stiles sighs, "It's just... that's not me and Scott can't understand it. He thinks that because I don't have the sickly sweet relationship that he has with Kira that that means I must be bitter and lonely. And I'm  _not_. Bitter, I mean. Sometimes I get lonely, but I'm not lonely for the stuff he thinks I'm lonely for. I mean, I," Stiles groans and tapers off, blinking his amber eyes up at Derek who's looking back down at him earnestly. Not for the first time in the confines of this broom closet, Stiles finds himself getting lost in Derek's eyes. "It's... hard to explain."

Derek's lips quirk up. "You want something exciting, but long lasting. Someone who's fun, but isn't going to up and leave once things start to mellow out."

"See," Stiles exclaims, raising his hand in a gesture toward Derek's god-like face. "You get it," His voice lowers to a private whisper that Derek wouldn't have been able to hear, had he been human. "Why do you get it?"

The pair sits in a comfortable silence after that and at some point, Derek begins to card his thick fingers through Stiles' hair. It's nice. It feels good to be touched by another person again, even if it is something as innocent as this. That strange, calming feeling is still there and it makes his skin tingle and buzz in a way that Stiles doesn't quite understand and doesn't have in him right now to consider. Derek must feel it too because he's making these cute little keening noises every now and again like he's completely content with the situation. It's hard to spare a thought for the hostages outside that are terrified for their lives right now. 

"Hey, can I ask a question?" Stiles speaks up after a while, his fingers playing with the zip of Derek's leather jacket. He has no idea how the werewolf is coping with the heat. 

Derek only nods and continues to run his blunt, human nails over the young man's scalp. 

Stiles shudders at the feeling. "Why did you guys bring guns?"

Thankfully, Stiles has yet to hear a single shot be fired. Sure, he may have left his sense morals back in the foyer with the other hostages, but he still doesn't think he could stand to see an innocent person killed. That would really put a downer on all the fluttery feelings he's having in his stomach. 

Derek stops his stroking - much to Stiles' displeasure - and brushes his fingertips over the human's cheek. He pauses the movement, flicking out the claw attached to his thumb, and traces it along Stiles' lip line. It's incredibly intimate and Stiles feels his breath hitching. "Claws leave DNA," He answers simply, but doesn't retract the razor sharp nail that is now running along the lines of his cupids bow. 

Before he can think better of it, Stiles is opening his mouth wider and capturing Derek's clawed thumb between his lips. He suckles lightly, keeping darkening amber eyes glued to the werewolf as he does so. Derek gulps visibly but makes no move to stop the man. Instead, he strokes his free hand down his chest and around his hip until the wolf's hand is cupped firmly on Stiles' ass. He squeezes hard and Stiles gasps, allowing Derek's thumb to slip free. 

The two share a heated stare before Stiles regains the ability to talk, dampening his lips. "How long do you think we have until you get the money?" He croaks.

Derek looks sheepish at that and breaks the eye contact, bringing one of his hands up to pull at the back of his neck. "Actually, they transferred everything into my offshore account about half an hour ago."

Something about that makes Stiles giggle despite his disappointment. "I guess the other hostages are long gone?"

"Yeah," Derek huffs a laugh and leans his head back against the wall, allowing Stiles to pull himself to his feet. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine," Stiles smiles, because it really is. He looks down at Derek, considering his next words carefully before a fierce wave of 'fuck it' washes over him. "I've still got that wedding tomorrow, if you're not busy or anything..."

 

When Stiles finally exits the bank into the cool evening breeze, he's greeted by the panicked sound of frantic clip-clacking and a flash of red. Lydia is breathless, her plush lips bitten pink and eyes red-rimmed. Of course she stayed. It's  _Lydia_. The young woman looks wrecked and Stiles feels suddenly terrible for presuming she'd be halfway to Beacon Hills by now. 

"Stiles!" She gasps, throwing herself into the man's waiting arms. She holds him tight, burying her damp face in his shoulder. "Are you alright? What happened?"

Stiles grins, grasping her firmly by the shoulders. "I got me a date!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter: Stiles gets quite the shock.

Weddings in the Hale pack are always an extravagant affair and the celebrations usually last well over a week, at the least. They're hectic and way over the top but easy to navigate once you've been to subjected to enough of them. Derek is good with Hale pack weddings. Outsider weddings are another story.

Derek is more of the quiet type - his sisters would probably describe him as a recluse, hermit, fun-sucking loner - and social situations are his own personal hell. Especially when the only person at the event that he knows by name is a guy he was holding at gunpoint less than twenty-four hours earlier. Still, the thirty-two missed calls he has received from his mother and the vibrating in his pocket that signals another call coming in is enough to reassure him that enduring this stranger's wedding is the lesser of two evils.

The fact that Stiles is cute is an added bonus.

 

The main reception is decorated with a traditional Japanese theme complete with cutesy trinkets and symbolic floral arrangements. The room is packed with the bride and groom's family and well-wishing friends, all dancing and laughing amongst their groups. Derek sticks out like a sore thumb - small town mentality and all that. Most of the guests have no idea who he is and if they do, they're not broaching the subject. Talia Hale might be somewhat of a public figure in Beacon Hills despite her profession but her son certainly is not. He prefers to stick to penthouse apartments in large cities that he can get lost in, ignored by the general public. This tiny town gives him the feeling of being trapped in a goldfish bowl and he fucking hates it. 

Beside him, Stiles is standing on his tiptoes, searching for an unknown face in the crowd. He huffs out an exasperated sigh and runs his fingers through his hair. "If he's eating the lobster I will  _destroy_ him," The man mutters to himself as he rolls his sleeves up, pivoting on his heels to get a look at the other side of the room. 

Derek raises his brow at his date; Stiles looks borderline homicidal with golden eyes glaring and his pretty pink lips pursed. He's wearing a burnt orange fitted dress shirt with a black tie like all the other groomsmen and his suit jacket hangs over his forearm. Derek thinks the outfit would look gaudy on anyone other than Stiles. Somehow the orange manages to make his Bambi eyes stand out all the more, even if said eyes are currently staring daggers into every waiter in the room. 

There's another loud set of vibrations coming from Derek's pants pocket and his face heats up involuntarily in a way that only a pissed off parent can cause. His mother is definitely going to kill him for his little stunt at the bank yesterday. These last few years have seen Derek growing more and more rebellious and acting out has almost become second nature to him ever since... well, for a while, anyway. 

The vibrations manage to snap Stiles out of whatever irritation based trance he was in and the man turns back to Derek with an apologetic blush. "Sorry," He mumbles and rubs at the back of his neck. "My dad's supposed to be watching his cholesterol and I haven't seen him all night. I'd bet you my jeep he's hauled up in a broom closet somewhere eating ten years off his life."

"You do seem a little distracted," Derek remarks lightly, a small, playful smile on his lips. 

"Sorry." Stiles' blush only grows and he shakes his head as if that will help banish his embarrassment. The man takes Derek by the wrist and gently tugs him towards the bar. "Come get a drink with me."

That's a hard offer to refuse and Derek quickly finds himself obediently following along, weaving his way through dancing guests and squealing bridesmaids. It's an open bar and such an attraction has drawn in a cluster of rowdy suit-clad men that Stiles pointedly avoids. He doesn't ask but keeps an eye trained on one kind-faced man who is starring right at Derek, a knowing smirk settled on his lips. Derek frowns back and the man gives a soft chuckle before turning away to who the wolf assumes is the man's boyfriend. 

That guy he recognises. 

Derek subconsciously squares his shoulders and makes to walk in Ethan Cole's direction when Stiles grasps his hand. He pulls his glare reluctantly away from the red-eyed alpha twin and looks down at his date. Stiles is holding a bright orange cocktail that smells like heart failure and is decorated with a lit sparkler. "Here," He beams, thrusting the condensation covered glass into Derek's free hand. "They're disgusting and fun at the same time."

"Only if you're having one too," The wolf grumbles, pushing the thought of Ethan from his mind. This evening is pleasure, not business, and whatever that asshole wants can wait. He has much more interesting things to think about right now. Derek gives a sharp blow on his neon pink straw, making it spin around the rim of the glass until it meets his lips. He sucks up the alcohol and cringes because - oh god, just no!

Stiles gags beside him and shudders, squinting and wetting his silky lips. "This drink makes me hate myself," he whispers, scandalised, and blinks up at Derek. "What say you?"

The beta grins back wolfishly, "This drink makes me hate you too."

Derek is met with a swift and playful smack to the arm and Stiles takes another drink, watching him for a long moment as if contemplating something. He leans into Derek and for a second the wolf thinks he's about to be hugged or kissed or puked on or something - that drink really is filth. Instead, Stiles looks in the direction that Derek had previously been staring, then grins and gives a wave toward the human Ethan is standing with. 

Before Derek can register the action - Stiles is friends with Ethan Cole's boyfriend??? - the boy is leaning the short distance up to Derek's ear. "Wanna get out of here?"

And yeah... yeah he does. 

 

The couple hurries down a freshly clean corridor that makes Derek's nose twitch in a pleasant way. All the wolves in his family hate the scent of generic cleaning products but for some reason, Derek has always found chemical smells strangely satisfying. A Taylor Swift song is playing in the reception hall but the two have travelled so deep into the building that the guests  _shaking it off_ is muffled to even his keen ears. A childish, giddy bubbling sensation is alive and fizzing in Derek's chest, making him feel like an excited teenager who's about to get his first blowy behind the bleachers as he follows Stiles further and further down the corridor. It's silly, really, but he can't help it. The beta would almost say he feels... happy.

"There," Stiles exclaims, dragging Derek even faster with his squeezing hand, his free one pointing forward in the direction of a closet as they near sprint. 

Stiles has a freckled hand on the handle in seconds and if it weren't for Derek's supernatural speed, he'd never have been able to drag the human back, covering his surprised mouth with closed fingers while his other arm presses across Stiles' chest like a barrier, blocking the human from moving forward. "There's someone in there," Derek whispers, holding back a laugh at what Stiles was about to walk into while ignoring the embarrassed flush that is creeping up his neck. In his haste to stop the man, he's pulled Stiles tight against his front so that he's back to chest and ass to dick. Regrets are had by all. 

Derek is just awkwardly removing himself from Stiles when the two occupants of the closet exit, faces red and glowing, hair mused. The pretty latina woman looks falsely apologetic for the scene and more mischevious than anything else while the man looks practically horrified. His face pales and he clears his throat, making to say something before clearly changing his mind and bolting in the opposite direction and - wow, that closet smells like sex. Like, really badly. Derek's nose has been  _assaulted_.

Chuckling under his breath at the ageing hoodlums, Derek turns to Stiles but is met with a scent close to misery and mortification. Derek hadn't noticed Stiles freeze in place when the couple had left the closet and he certainly hadn't noticed the way Stiles' heartbeat had skyrocketed. "Stiles, are you o-"

" _Eewwwwwwwwwww_ ," Stiles wines lengthily and shudders, wrapping his arms around himself tightly like he's about to get into the fetal position and rock backwards and forwards. "Oh, God,  _no_. Ew. Ew ew ew ew ew!" 

And just like that Stiles is fleeing out of sight, still clutching himself for dear life while he protests his disgust.

Derek stands in the corridor, next to the sex drenched closet, wondering what the fuck just happened. 

 

He finds Stiles by the water fountain; he isn't alone. The man has a glass of something alcoholic gripped tight between his fingers and a dark indentation is carving its way into his forehead where the rim of the tumbler is pressing hard into his skin. He's leaning heavily on his elbow, eyes pressed closed as he whispers the word 'ew' on repeat to a red head who's sat beside him.

Derek doesn't know who the quite frankly stunning woman is because, once again, he met Stiles less than twenty-four hours ago and so far he's only learned two things: 1) he's adorable, and 2) his fifty-year-old father is still getting some ass. Which is honestly commendable at his age. Credit where credit's due.

The woman lifts her head up as Derek approaches and locks her calculating green eyes on him, staring him down assessingly. She's sharp and beautiful and very intimidating. Derek feels like breaking eye contact with her would be losing some kind of initiation test, so he keeps his gaze locked on hers, features stilled in an expressionless mask until the woman gives in and looks away. Stiles mutters something to her and she nods, patting his shoulder once before stalking past Derek, bumping his shoulder as she goes. 

"Why couldn't he have been eating the lobster?" Stiles whispers, his face screwed up in distaste. 

The edge of the fountain is damp from the spray but Derek sits anyway, wrapping a strong arm around the man's waist and pulling him into his side. "I'm sorry you caught your dad getting his rocks off," Derek consoles, rubbing his hand up and down Stiles' arm. "If it helps, at least you didn't have to smell it."

Stiles throws his head back and lets out a pained groan, slamming his now empty glass down on the side of the fountain. He gives himself a moment to collect his thoughts and truly accept the horror of what he has just witnessed. When he finally looks up at Derek, the wolf is grinning shamelessly. "What?" Stiles asks, scrunching his brow. 

Derek huffs and shakes his head at the absurdity of it. "I like you a lot, Stiles. Which is weird because I held you hostage yesterday."

"Probably don't want to say that out loud when the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department is hovering about," Stiles laughs quietly. "But," he adds, "I like you a lot, too."

"Good." The Beta nods and chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, considering his next actions. "I'm going to kiss you now."

Stiles nods back and - honestly they're such dorks. Derek is a fucking  _dork_. When did this happen? "Go right ahead."

With permission granted, Derek leans forward and captures Stiles' lips in his own, kissing him almost tenderly. It's sappy and disgusting and Derek will deny the romance of it if anyone ever asks, but Stiles' lips are soft and perfect and he smells so cinnamon sweet. It's addicting. Derek isn't sure which one of them deepens the kiss but he's pleasantly surprised when it happens. He cups Stiles' cheek and dominates his mouth until he has the control, yet uses it gently. 

They break apart, gasping for air. Stiles wets his lips, his amber eyes burning with desire while Derek takes a quick scope of the area. He huffs, that giddy feeling returning and asks, "Wanna do it in the fountain."

Stiles' eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he nods slowly. "Yes, yes I do."

 

Sheriff Stilinski's expression is a lot less funny the second time around. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just finished thoroughly planning out a four chaptered mini fic which will introduce one of the plots of the main fic and I'm really excited to write it. 
> 
> I did have a kinda dark oneshot almost completely written up which I accidentally deleted and I was too bummed out after that to post anything, so that's my excuse for going MIA haha.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this little crackish add-on piece and feel free to leave any prompts or requests in the comments or over on my new [tumblr](http://savethequeerleadersavetheworld.tumblr.com) xo


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